"You are playing with fire, sweet girl," Petyr spoke quietly. He always spoke so quietly, making others lean towards him in order to pick up on his words. But Sansa stood still. Her hearing was good; she could make out his meaning just fine over the rhythmic strike of the smith's hammer in the courtyard below. "But we learn our best lessons when we are burned."

She had left his chambers with fire on her mind. She feared it, certainly. Fire had eaten up her younger brothers, though the Greyjoy traitor had first fled those flames. The Hound had feared fire, too. And she had coincidentally heard that tale from Petyr, as well. She had witnessed the Hound's fear, he had come to her looking for a song and more. He had taken his kiss, and he had left.

Now, in a late hour of the afternoon, she ventured willingly into the forge's heat. She was dressed in pale blue and had worn a shawl over her head to protect her ears from the cold, but had soon realized that it wasn't necessary once she'd reached the narrow wooden canopy signalling the forge's entrance.

"It's hot," she observed -- a little lamely -- when she finally caught his eye. Before then, she'd let him work. And she had watched, fascinated.